Page 29

CHAPTER 29

POV: Cadeyrn

I watch her sleep, this copper-haired anomaly who has torn through seven centuries of my carefully constructed control. Briar's body curls toward mine even in slumber, cillae shimmering across her skin in the dim light of our forest shelter. The silver threads woven through her hair catch the moonlight filtering through the canopy, creating a halo effect I find impossible to look away from.

Never in my long life did I imagine I would enter rut—let alone stay in it for this long. Court physicians had warned for generations that succumbing to primal urges ages fae royalty, each rut draining centuries from our lifespans. Yet here I am, stronger than I've ever been, my body transformed not into weakness but primal power.

I trace a finger along the frost pattern adorning her shoulder, feeling the responding pulse of magic between us. Her breathing changes—not quite waking, but responding to my touch even in sleep. The connection frightens me in ways battle never could. I've faced countless enemies across my centuries, but none have breached my defenses like this blacksmith's apprentice masquerading as a sacrifice.

"Stop thinking so loudly," Briar murmurs, her eyes still closed. "Your brooding is waking me up."

I hadn't realized our connection had grown strong enough for her to sense my thoughts so easily. Another unpredicted development in this unprecedented situation.

"I don't brood," I inform her, watching as her lips curve into that defiant smile that first caught my attention across the Gathering Circle. "I contemplate."

She snorts, amber eyes fluttering open with flecks of ice-blue that mirror my own. "Is that what you call staring at me while radiating enough anxiety to freeze the forest?"

Her directness both irritates and enthralls me. No one at court would dare address me with so much insolence—another reason our situation is so dangerously intoxicating.

"You should sleep while you can," I say, brushing a strand of copper hair from her face. "Dawn is still hours away."

"Hard to sleep with you watching me like that." She stretches languidly, the movement drawing my attention to the elegant arch of her neck where my claiming marks have scarred into permanent evidence of our bond.

Something primal in me—something I never knew existed before meeting her—purrs with satisfaction at the sight. My own cillae pulse in response to the desire coursing through me, a visual manifestation of feelings I've never experienced before her.

Before she can say more, a sudden chill sweeps through our shelter—not from my powers or Briar's developing frost abilities, but something external. Something familiar.

I'm on my feet in an instant, positioning myself between Briar and the shelter's entrance. "We have visitors."

Two figures materialize from the darkness, their Winter Court insignia gleaming silver against white cloaks. Royal messengers, not assassins—though in my experience, the distinction isn't always meaningful.

"My Prince," the first messenger says, dropping to one knee just outside our shelter. Her eyes widen slightly at the sight of Briar, clearly surprised by the physical changes in my claimed omega. "The Court sends urgent counsel."

"Speak," I command, not moving from my protective stance.

The second messenger steps forward. "Your continued absence is being interpreted as abdication, my Prince. Some of the lords have publicly questioned your fitness to lead, citing your... unprecedented physical transformation as evidence of degradation."

I feel Briar tense behind me. She knows enough of court politics now to understand the threat behind these politely delivered words.

"And the Council's position?" I ask, though I already suspect the answer.

"Divided, my Prince. Elder Frost supports your claim but warns that without your physical presence, sentiment shifts daily. The treasury has been secured against... unauthorized access."

Translation: they're preparing for transition of power. My assets are being frozen to prevent me from gathering resources.

The first messenger hesitates before adding, "There is also the matter of your claimed omega. Rumors of her... unusual condition have spread. Dr. Cassius Frost has expressed particular interest in examining her, citing concerns about contamination of the royal bloodline."

I feel rather than see Briar's scowl. She's developed a healthy hatred for court physicians and their clinical approach to breeding.

"You may inform the Council that I will return when it suits me," I reply, ice coating my words. "And my omega's condition is none of their concern."

"There is... one more thing, my Prince." The second messenger glances nervously at his companion. "The allied courts have issued formal protest against your actions during the Hunt. Specifically, the killing of Lord Klairs Thorn, whose body was recently recovered and reanimated through Summer Court magic."

This is unwelcome news. Klairs was the first alpha I killed for approaching Briar—a necessary example that apparently failed to adequately discourage others. That the Summer Court would expend the considerable magic necessary to reanimate him suggests a level of coordination between courts I haven't seen in centuries.

"Leave us," I command, feeling frost spreading from my feet across the forest floor. "Tell the court that challenging my claim will have consequences even the best foretellers can't foresee."

The messengers retreat with formal bows, but their scents betray uncertainty. They don't believe I'll return to court—or perhaps they don't believe I'll be permitted to if I try.

As their white forms disappear into the darkness, Briar steps beside me, her warmth a counterpoint to the ice I've unconsciously spread across our shelter.

"That sounded ominous," she says, sliding her hand into mine. The touch sends a current of sensation up my arm, cillae lighting in response. "Are you worried?"

I turn to face her, studying the woman who has somehow become more important than seven centuries of carefully curated power. In the dim light, her skin glows with the cillae that mirror my own, her eyes holding flecks of my winter blue. The sight stirs something possessive and primal within me.

"No," I answer truthfully. "Court politics have always been treacherous. The difference now is that I find myself caring less about maintaining power and more about..." I pause, unused to articulating such sentiments.

"About?" She prompts, one eyebrow raised in challenge.

"About you." The admission feels strange on my tongue, too simple to encompass the complexity of what's happened between us. "About what we're becoming together."

Her expression softens, a vulnerability she rarely allows herself to show. "And what exactly are we becoming, Cadeyrn?"

I reach out, tracing the frost pattern that curves along her jawline. "Something unprecedented. Something neither the courts nor I could have predicted." My voice drops lower. "My father once told me that true power requires absolute control. That attachment is weakness."

"And now?" Her pulse quickens beneath my touch.

"Now I wonder if he was wrong about many things." I allow my fingers to trace down her neck, following the path of the frost. "I've never felt stronger than since claiming you. Never felt more alive."

She studies my face, searching for deception. "Even though your court is turning against you? Even though four courts are hunting us?"

I smile, feeling the feral edge to it. "Because of those things, perhaps. For centuries, I played their game of political calculation and strategic alliances. I claimed omegas chosen for their bloodline compatibility, never for..." I trail off, unsure how to articulate this foreign concept.

"Never for desire," she finishes for me, her scent shifting subtly to match the hunger in my own.

"No. Never for desire." My hand slides to cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing against my claiming mark. "Until you."

The air between us charges with electricity, cillae across both our skins pulsing in synchronized rhythm. Her pupils dilate, a mirror to my own arousal.

"I've lived seven centuries," I tell her, voice dropping to a whisper as I draw her closer. "But I never felt truly awake until I claimed you."

When our lips meet, the connection sparks with literal frost—tiny crystals forming in the air around us as magic responds to emotion. Her mouth is warm against mine, her body pressing forward with that fearless desire that first captivated me in the forest. There is no submission in the way she kisses—only equal hunger, equal need.

My hands slide down her sides, appreciating the strength in her form—so different from the fragile court omegas bred for appearance rather than resilience. Her body bears the marks of forge work, muscle built through years of hammering metal rather than ornamental existence. I trace each plane and curve, memorizing her through touch as her breathing quickens.

"I never thought I'd want an alpha's hands on me," she confesses against my lips. "Never thought I'd crave being claimed."

"And now?" I ask, echoing her earlier question.

Her answer is to pull me back to our makeshift bed of furs, drawing me down atop her with surprising strength. My rut responds instantly, blood rushing southward as her scent envelops me.

"Now I find myself wanting things I never imagined," she admits, her honesty as arousing as her touch.

I lower my head to her throat, breathing in the intoxicating blend of her natural scent and the frost magic pulsing beneath her skin. When my teeth graze the claiming mark, she arches against me with a gasp that sends fire through my veins.

"You've changed me," I murmur against her skin. "In ways I'm only beginning to understand."

"Show me," she challenges, amber eyes gleaming with flecks of winter blue.

I take my time exploring her body, tracing cillae across her skin with my tongue, delighting in her responsive shudders. The blacksmith's daughter has callused hands and muscled shoulders—evidence of a life of labor that somehow makes her more beautiful to me than any pampered court omega.

When I move lower, she tenses briefly in surprise.

"What are you?—"

"Let me," I interrupt, looking up at her from between her thighs. "Let me taste you."

Color floods her cheeks. "That's not... alphas don't..."

"This alpha does." I smile against her inner thigh. "This alpha wants to."

Her breath catches as I press a kiss to the sensitive skin where leg meets hip. The scent of her arousal hits me like a physical blow, my rut surging in response until my gums ache with the need to bite, to claim again. I fight the urge, determined to show her there's more to my desire than primal possession.

"Court alphas would consider this beneath them," I explain, trailing my lips closer to her center, watching goosebumps rise in the wake of my breath. "They believe pleasure should flow one way—omega to alpha." I glance up at her, letting her see the predatory hunger in my eyes. "Another reason court alphas are fools."

Heat radiates from her core, the sweet-spicy scent of omega arousal intensified by the frost magic now infusing her essence. My mouth waters, rut demanding I taste what's mine.

"Cadeyrn," she whispers, uncertainty in her voice. "You don't have to?—"

"You still don't understand, do you?" I interrupt, pressing my thumb against her entrance, watching her eyes widen as I circle the sensitive flesh. "This isn't duty. This is hunger." I lower my head until my lips brush her inner thigh, letting her feel the controlled edge of my teeth. "I want to taste every part of what belongs to me."

Her pulse quickens beneath my lips, the intoxicating scent of her arousal making my rut throb painfully. The primal part of me screams to mount, to claim, to knot—to bind her to me in the most ancient way. I suppress it, determined to show her this different kind of possession.

"The claiming mark isn't the only way to make you mine," I murmur against her heated flesh. "Let me show you."

Before she can respond, I taste her—deliberately, thoroughly—savoring her essence. The flavor explodes across my tongue—honey and spice and something uniquely Briar, now undercut with the winter-crisp taste of frost magic. A growl rumbles through my chest, unbidden. Seven centuries of existence, and nothing has ever tasted this essential.

Her hands fly to my hair, fingers tangling in the strands as she responds to my attentions. I pin her hips with one forearm, my other hand splaying across her lower belly where I can feel her muscles trembling.

"Stay still, little omega," I command against her flesh, feeling her shudder at the vibration of my words. "Let your alpha take care of you."

The possessive term slips out without thought, yet feels perfectly right. In this moment, that's exactly what we are—alpha and omega, predator and prey, locked in the most ancient dance. Yet transformed into something new, something the courts would never understand.

"Please," she gasps, trying to arch against my restraining arm. "Cadeyrn, I need?—"

"I know exactly what you need." I circle her most sensitive spot with the tip of my tongue, feeling her thighs tense on either side of my head. "Better than you do."

I taste her again, slower this time, savoring the way her body responds to each deliberate stroke. My free hand slides up to trace the cillae spiraling across her rib cage, feeling them pulse with her accelerating heartbeat. When my fingers brush the underside of her breast, she moans—a broken, needy sound that drives my rut to near-painful intensity.

"You taste like magic," I tell her between deliberate strokes of my tongue. "Like winter sunrise and summer thunder." My words are becoming less coherent as my rut fogs rational thought. "Like mine."

I slide a finger carefully inside her, curving upward as I taste her again, and she cries out—a sharp, broken sound that sends a surge of satisfaction through me. Her inner walls clench around my finger, slick and responsive.

"Yes," I growl against her. "Show me how my omega responds to her alpha's touch."

I add a second finger, stretching her gently while my tongue works in steady circles. The cillae across her skin begin to glow brighter, pulsing in time with her racing heart. I feel the magic building between us, a tangible pressure in the air.

"Do you feel it?" I ask, raising my head just enough to see her face contorted in pleasure. "The magic responding to us?"

She nods frantically, beyond words as her hips strain against my restraining arm. I release her then, allowing her to move against my mouth as I redouble my efforts, my fingers curving to find the spot inside that makes her breath hitch.

"Cadeyrn," she gasps, my name becoming a litany on her lips. "Cadeyrn, Cadeyrn, Cadeyrn."

Each repetition fuels my rut, my arousal painful now as my body demands completion. I ignore it, focused entirely on her pleasure. I want to see her shatter, to know I brought her to that edge with nothing but my mouth and hands. To prove that my possession of her goes beyond the primal act of knotting.

"Give yourself to me," I command against her flesh, then suck gently on the sensitive bundle of nerves while pressing my fingers deeper inside.

Her entire body goes rigid, her scent spiking with the unmistakable edge of omega release. The cillae across her skin flare brilliantly, and I feel answering patterns ignite across my own flesh as the magic surges between us. For a moment, our minds connect through the claiming bond—her pleasure becomes mine, and mine hers, in an endless feedback loop that threatens to drag me into my own release despite the lack of physical contact.

"That's it," I murmur against her, gentling my touch but not stopping as she trembles beneath me. "Let me feel all of it."

When she finally shatters completely, her back arching off the furs, frost explodes from her skin in a cascade of blue-white light that illuminates our shelter. A hoarwhorl of magic spreads across the ground beneath us, crystallizing the air itself as the magic pulses between us, strengthening with each wave of her release. The cold burns against my heated skin, the pain-pleasure of it nearly driving me over the edge.

"Alpha," she whimpers, the instinctive term slipping past her usually guarded lips as her body convulses around my fingers. The word hits me like a physical blow, my rut surging with possessive triumph.

She's still shaking with aftershocks when I withdraw my fingers, fighting the urge to taste them as I move up her body. My control is hanging by a thread, my rut demanding I claim, I knot, I breed. The scent of her completion is everywhere, driving me half-mad with desire. I press my forehead against hers, breathing deeply to center myself.

"Look what you've done to me," I whisper, my voice rough with restraint. "Seven centuries of perfect control, undone by one blacksmith's apprentice."

Her eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide with lingering pleasure, the amber irises now permanently flecked with my winter blue. She reaches up to trace the cillae glowing across my chest, and I shudder at her touch.

"I didn't know it could be like that," she admits, her voice wonderfully hoarse. Her gaze drops lower, to where my arousal strains painfully obvious. She reaches down with obvious intent, her fingers brushing my abdomen. "Let me?—"

"You don't need to," I capture her wrist gently, bringing her hand to my lips instead.

"But your rut?—"

"Will wait." I press a kiss to her palm. "Tonight was for you."

Her brow furrows in confusion. "I don't understand. Why would you..."

"Because I wanted to see you come apart under my touch." I trace the cillae along her collarbone, admiring how it glistens with her perspiration. "Because I wanted to give you pleasure without taking anything in return. Because..." I hesitate, then admit the truth, "Because I've never experienced anything like watching you find your release."

She studies me with that penetrating gaze that seems to see through centuries of careful walls. "You're not what I expected, Winter Prince."

"Nor you, little omega." I smile, feeling the dangerous edge to it. My voice drops to a growl as I grip her chin, tilting her face up to mine. "But don't worry. Tomorrow night, when we reach the central haven..." I lean close, my teeth grazing the sensitive shell of her ear, "I'm going to hunt you through those ancient grounds. I'll chase you until your body drips with need, until you're begging me to fill you, to knot you so deep you'll feel me for days after."

A visible shiver runs through her at my words, her scent spiking with renewed arousal despite her recent release. She shifts against me, her thigh sliding deliberately against my painfully engorged knot.

"And if I don't want to wait until tomorrow?" she challenges, her hand slipping between us to grasp me with surprising boldness.

I growl, pinning her hand above her head in a swift movement that makes her gasp. "Don't test me, little omega. My control is hanging by a thread."

Her eyes darken, pupils dilating as she arches against my restraint. "What if I want that thread to break?"

I press my forehead to hers, breathing in her scent that's now mingled with my own. "You don't understand what you're asking for. My rut hasn't faded since I first claimed you. If I take you now, after tasting your release on my tongue, I won't be gentle."

"Maybe I don't want gentle," she whispers, sliding her free hand down to where her arousal still glistens on her thighs. My eyes follow the movement, rut surging painfully as she brings her fingers back up, coated in her essence. Before I can stop her, she traces her slick-covered fingertips across my lips.

The taste hits me like a blow, my rut surging beyond control. I growl, low and dangerous, as I flip her beneath me in one fluid motion.

"You want to play with fire?" I grasp her thighs, spreading them wide as I position myself against her entrance without breaching. "Then burn with me."

Her eyes widen, pupils blown with desire as she feels my hardness pressed against her core. Instead of thrusting inside, I slide against her, the length of me gliding through her wetness in a torturous friction that makes her gasp.

"This is what happens when you provoke an alpha in rut," I tell her, voice rough as I establish a rhythm, gliding against her most sensitive spot without giving her what she truly craves. "You get exactly what I decide to give you—nothing more, nothing less."

"Please," she whimpers, trying to angle her hips to take me inside. "I need?—"

"I know exactly what you need," I interrupt, pinning her more firmly as I continue to slide against her. "And tomorrow, when we reach the central haven, I'll give it to you. But tonight—" I lean down to growl against her ear, "tonight you learn what happens when you challenge my control."

Her body responds instinctively to my dominance, a fresh wave of arousal easing my movements as I rock against her. Frost patterns spiral across both our skins, pulsing with each thrust. The pleasure is exquisite torture—so close to what my body demands yet deliberately denied.

My knot begins to swell at the base, throbbing painfully with the need to lock inside her. Fighting every primal instinct screaming to claim, to breed, I maintain my discipline, using only the friction between us to build my pleasure.

When release finally claims me, I spill across her stomach and thighs with a snarl that makes the forest itself seem to tremble. Frost explodes outward from where our bodies meet, coating the furs and ground around us in crystalline patterns.

Briar watches with wonder as I maintain perfect control even in the height of pleasure—my knot fully swollen but deliberately kept from locking inside her. The power of my release paints her skin, marking her as mine without claiming in the traditional way.

"How did you—" she begins, her voice breathy with astonishment and lingering arousal. Her hand reaches between us, fingers trailing through the evidence of my pleasure mingled with her own. The sensation against my oversensitive flesh makes me hiss.

"Seven centuries of discipline has its advantages," I tell her, voice still rough from exertion. "Though none has been harder won than this."

She stares at me with new understanding, her scent shifting to something deeper than mere physical arousal—a respect and heat that suggests her omega instincts recognize something profound in this display of restraint.

"I've never seen an alpha able to..." she trails off, her fingers tracing the still-swollen knot with fascination.

"Most can't," I confirm, watching her expression with satisfaction. "Most are slaves to their biology. But I am Prince of Winter. Master of myself first, before all else."

A shiver runs through her that has nothing to do with the frost surrounding us. "And tomorrow?" she asks, heat rising in her cheeks.

I smile, feeling the predatory edge to it. "Tomorrow I hunt you properly. And when I catch you—" I lean down to bite gently at her claiming mark, "then you'll feel every inch of what I've held back tonight."

The promise hangs between us, charged with anticipation so thick it's almost visible in the frost-laden air.

"We should rest," I say, pulling her closer against me. "Dawn approaches, and we have ground to cover."

As she drifts toward sleep in my arms, her scent wraps around me like a physical thing. I bury my face in her hair, breathing her in. Gods, what is happening to me? The court would call this madness—this need, this hunger that goes beyond the physical claiming. They'd see it as weakness, a prince brought low by omega pheromones.

They're wrong.

I've never felt stronger, never felt more alive than with her frost-marked skin pressed against mine. For centuries, I built walls of ice around myself, believing that's what power meant—control, distance, perfect isolation. Now those walls are melting, and instead of drowning, I'm finally breathing.

Something coils tight in my chest when I look at her sleeping face. It's unfamiliar, almost painful, this feeling. Is this what humans call love? This desperate, primal need to protect, to possess, to belong to another? The thought should terrify me. Seven centuries of existence, and I've never allowed myself to need anyone.

My fingers trace the claiming mark on her neck, and the cillae on our skin pulse in unison. Mine. The word thunders through my blood with each heartbeat. But it's more complicated than that now, isn't it? I'm also hers. The thought doesn't sting like surrender—it burns like power.

There are darker things I'm keeping from her. Things I don't let myself think about when our minds connect through the bond. Ancient warnings about what happens when Wild Magic awakens. Blood sacrifices. Transformations that can't be undone. Secrets the courts buried because they feared what they couldn't control.

Fuck the courts. Fuck tradition. Fuck seven centuries of cold, empty power.

I pull her closer, feeling her heartbeat against mine, our cillae synchronizing until I can't tell where my magic ends and hers begins. Whatever waits for us at the central haven, whatever price we'll pay for this transformation—I've made my choice.

I choose her. Us. This wild, unknown thing we're becoming together.

My rut pulses steady and strong, no longer the frantic desperation of first claiming but something deeper. A connection that feels ancient and new all at once. My instincts whisper that I should be afraid, that I'm stepping into unknown territory without maps or weapons.

Instead, all I feel is fierce, hungry joy.

For the first time in my long, cold life, I'm on fire. And I never want the flames to die.